Bookshelf Sturdy
by Clearwalker
Summary: Hermione wondered if there was a phobia about time travel.
1. Infinite Monkey Theory

**Beginning Notes:**

I haven't read the Cursed Child, but the moment I heard about a "true" Time-Turner, I was on it like a moth to a flame. And I watched _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ a week ago, so, this story was born. The edition of FABWTFT that I reference to in the chapter is the one JK Rowling published in 2001, where Ron, Harry and Hermione all wrote in. The comments are fairly amusing and it's a nice read. And one last thing, I will be focusing on the Book-verse, so nothing in the movies will be in this story, sorry!

* * *

 _There are moments that define a person's whole life._

 _Moments in which everything they are and everything they may possibly become_

 _balance on a single decision._

 ** _\- Jonathon Maberry_**

* * *

The Infinite Monkey Theorem stated that an unlimited number of monkeys, given typewriters and sufficient time, would eventually produce a particular text, such as the complete works of Shakespeare. So theoretically, Hermione Granger was destined to meet Newt Scamander no matter how random the encounter may seem, with her life's typewriter a Time-Turner stuck in a loop of being smashed over and over again. And if given an infinite number of chances, it was inevitable that they would fall in love. But that was only possible if Hermione stood true to herself, a testament to her once in a lifetime selfishness, and whether or not she cared for the rules of history's delicate playground this very moment. There was always something about fate, bittersweet endings and all in between when it came to stories as impossible as hers.

Hermione stumbled upon this theory before she entered Hogwarts. There had been a book that caught her eye within one of her father's bookshelves. It was at the very bottom and to the far right, meaning that it was easily forgettable and mostly bought because it had managed to garner Horatio Granger's attention. And Hermione was right from her deduction, for the book had bored her as well. She could not remember its title, but found the gold lettering on the black cover to be satisfactory. Not being able to recall fully, she did know that she spent no more than forty five minutes with the book in her hand, her eyes devouring the information only to discover that after she turned the page, she had no clue as to what she was even reading and what was exactly interesting about it. Hermione promptly closed the book, returning it to the graveyard at the bottom shelf.

And the monkeys she thought of no more.

The day that shifted everything in Hermione's life half a meter to the left was an unassuming one. A day that the monkeys began to type and Hermione would have laughed as if she were sitting in the middle of Divination. It was the early morning when she had been digging through old boxes within her flat with the efficiency of a divorcee and not a nostalgic. Although she had been certain that she packed solely her things, a nagging voice, gentle but present at the back of her mind, was telling her to double check. For the last thing she needed was Ron appearing at her door and demanding she give back whatever she accidentally and apparently stole.

At the age of thirty, Hermione was certain she'd be fully silver before her fortieth birthday. A snore from Crookshanks sleeping on her desk made her snort, a small, almost relieved smile twitched her lips. While human males were currently not in her well wishes, she still had her cat. Recently celebrating nineteen years of life, he certainly was no longer the fireball she knew in her time at Hogwarts, and spent more time napping in the oddest of places than chasing any butterfly that managed to fly through the window. But he provided a comfort she could no longer receive from Ron, as tragic and pathetic as that sounded.

It had been two weeks since her divorce from Ron was finalized, with the two parting on civil yet rocky terms. It would be a while before Ron could return to being her friend, let alone her best friend, but for now, she appreciated the silence and his lack of calls. Hermione wasn't sure where to pinpoint when exactly she realized she didn't truly love her husband. Sincerely she loved him, but not in the way that was expected from an almost ten year marriage. Perhaps Ron asked for her hand too early, and her acceptance was more out of obligation because everyone seemed to think they would spend forever together. That notion bothered her, at first starting as a little pessimistic beat in her heart before becoming a steady drumming that finally ceased when she removed Weasley from her name.

She didn't regret her marriage. None of it. Not really. Even if they didn't get the chance to have children. She and Ron made many happy memories together, ones that she could cherish and wouldn't feel ashamed to look at whenever she opened up her scrapbook. Hell, she was positive that one of her boxes even had a framed photo from their time at Fiji. Hermione laughed to herself when she thought of Ron tripping and getting a mouthful of sand to the point where he still felt grains whenever he pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth.

Hermione shook her head to disperse the memory and continued rummaging through several boxes at once, placing little trinkets Saul Croaker had given her off to the side to be put away in a cabinet later. Saul Croaker, an aging Unspeakable that was best at what he did. It was an odd friendship that the two developed over the past two years. During her time in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she had saved him from a particularly feisty Doxy unhappy with its imprisonment and also very confident in getting its venomous teeth sunk into Saul's arm for no other reason than Saul was the first person it had encountered since its escape. Saul thanked Hermione profusely and shook her hand as if she were the Prime Minister. The encounter was amusing to say the least, since she seldom saw the Unspeakable, and the one time she got to talk to him was when he was screaming through the Ministry at the top of his lungs.

It seemed that in the moments of raw fear, even the most powerful of wizards forget to use simple stunning spells.

"Oh, look at you," Hermione gasped softly, reaching into a frayed box with the delicacy of a jewel thief. Her fingers gently held the book, and she was mindful of the cover that was no doubt falling apart. "How did you get in here?" she smiled and rubbed the dust off the book.

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander _._

Hermione was certain that she had lost her prized treasure, the one she had bought during her time in Hogwarts, when she was in Egypt and was too distraught to think of even buying a replacement. And if this wasn't hers, it was most likely Harry's, since he'd take any chance of dumping unwanted books into her possession when she wasn't looking. Not that she complained. And her thoughts were correct when she gingerly opened it and saw three distinct handwritings glaring back at her from the yellowing pages.

"Property of Harry Potter," she read with a twinkle of mirth in her eye, "shared by Ron Weasley because his fell apart." Hermione pressed the book to her face, having trouble trying to smother her childish giggles.

Hermione closed the book and placed it beside Crookshanks and mentally noted to give it a read before bed. More for the comments that she, Harry and Ron wrote down than the actual contents of Newt's work, which she clearly knew like the back of her hand.

Believing that the other boxes held no importance, she continued searching through the frayed box in which she found the book. Her fingertips brushed against old journals and a scarf with the Gryffindor colors. She shook her head, tossing the former over her shoulder and then wrapped the scarf around her neck. Hermione almost burst into tears when she saw her S.P.E.W badge tucked next to an empty frame. Out of obligation she pinned it to her tank top, patting it with pride.

How far she had come.

Slowly, she let go of her feelings on the divorce and allowed herself the nostalgia she knew not why she craved, breathing in the material of the scarf and believing she was currently smelling Butterbeer. If Hermione really did accidentally take one of Ron's things, then he would have shown up for them by now unless he was purposely avoiding her. Which he was. And it was understandable.

She missed being a part of the Golden Trio. While they were all still treated as such, it felt more like a title bearing the burden of a legacy than a friendship that started because of a Troll in the bathroom and lasted long enough to get them through a war. Harry and Ron became fixated on ridding the corruption within the Ministry once they were appointed Aurors. It was a miracle that she even managed to see them as she finished her schooling at Hogwarts. A small part of her wished that they would have joined her. Maybe it would have made a difference as to who they were today.

It had been hard at first without them, the memories of the war too recent to the point whenever she entered the Great Hall all she could see were the bodies that had been lined up with sheets covering them. Remus and Tonks among them. It was nearly impossible to not chase the ghosts back to the places where they were once people, each corner of Hogwarts becoming a place to relive a memory than to attain her N.E.W.T.s. Often her feet led her to the Defense against the Dark Arts room without warrant or she'd go searching for the Room of Requirement despite knowing fully well that it was more than likely destroyed.

Not to mention the constant whispers and questions from those who had not been a part of the Battle. Often she found herself wishing to be normal-yet-incredibly smart student Hermione Granger and not Hermione Granger, the war hero.

Continuing her nostalgic search, at the very bottom, a black velvet box that she could fit in the palm of her hand caught her eye. Hermione almost missed it at her first, her gaze having first found a handkerchief with Viktor Krum's initials. She was unsure how she even got around to owning that, but that was a story for another day as she pushed it to the side and retrieved the box.

"To Hermione Granger," she murmured, reading the small note attached, plucking it from the silver string it was attached to. Her eyes narrowed, attempting to find any clue what might be in the box. And to make matters even more peculiar, the handwriting was nearly identical to hers.

Hermione grabbed her wand and set the small box in the middle of her room. She used several revealing charms, trying to find any hex that could spring at her if she had carelessly opened it. After several moments of finding nothing to be of danger, she curiously opened it without hesitation and nearly dropped the box at the sight that greeted her.

Her jaw dropped as the early morning light bathed upon intricate gold. "Blimey." Other times she would berate herself for allowing Ron's vocabulary to mix with hers, but she paid no mind to it now. She knew a Time-Turner when she saw one.

But this one seemed different, smaller than the one she returned to the Ministry and there was a lack of as many words save for one: _Prototyptum._ Prototype. Oxygen was vital to her existence, but Hermione found herself incapable of drawing breath as she cradled the Time-Turner. She curled her fingers slowly, believing that once she opened her head, it would be gone. But she felt it, as if it were sentient, the hourglass providing a warmth that almost made her giddy.

Hermioned paced back in forth, her excitement melting into anxiety, which filled the room enough to shake Crookshanks from his sleep. In annoyance he purposely kicked off her book from the desk and mischievously watched it slam against the wooden floor. What a vengeful cat. She did not heed his childishness and allowed her thoughts to consume her. Her acquirement of a Time-Turner meant she needed to get it to the Unspeakables as quickly as possible. However, giving it up meant they'd only ask her where she got it from, and that would in turn lead to suspicion. Suspicion she wasn't ready to exactly handle, for it felt like she was a disappointment, a failure.

On the other hand, if Hermione kept it, something bad might happen or she might feel tempted to go back in time, to do something rash in the middle of an emotional moment. While her nightmares were not as prominent as they were twelve years ago, they still affected her greatly.

She was only human after all.

A groan she realized came from her filled her ears as she stopped in front of the wall to bang her forehead softly against it. Hermione didn't see herself achieving any favorable outcomes. She was, in simple terms, very screwed.

Deciding to put it off to deal with later, Hermione returned the Time-Turner to the black velvet box and placed it beside her quill holder. She retrieved _FBAWTFT_ from the floor to place it within her library and pushed the thought of the Time-Turner to the back of her mind. There was no better time to eat breakfast and catch up on some reading. She would settle on an option by noon.

Φ

Hermione did, in fact, lie, and had not actually made a decision on what to do with the Time-Turner. The sun had already set with the full moon high in the sky, and the Time-Turner was still within its black velvet box. Just as she had left it. She did a good job at pretending she wasn't a nervous wreck. She even managed to convince herself that everything would turn out alright if she only continued to put off the inevitable.

Crookshanks huffed in irritation from where he laid on Hermione's chest as she laughed for the fourth time that evening. Her shaking roused him from his sleep far more than he would like, and he ultimately jumped down, a low growl accompanying him towards her room. She had read a particular amusing note Harry left behind, another snigger leaving her mouth when she reread it. It was below the entry of the Hungarian Horntail, " _Supposedly the most dangerous of all dragon breeds."_ Harry's scribble had sarcasm peppered in every letter as an arrow pointed to the sentence: _**You're not kidding.**_

She sighed softly, knowing that Harry was incapable of forgetting the Tri-Wizard Tournament and would remain bitter about it (not in reference to Cedric's death, of course). Who could, really? It changed all of them, even Viktor and Fleur. Hermione could still recall George and Fred attempting to place their names in the Goblet of Fire like it happened yesterday. The thought of Fred still rubbed her heart raw emotionally.

Hermione idly flipped back to the page of with Newt's biography, for a moment, wondering what it would have been like to live in his time. While it would not mean her life would get easier, it certainly was a nice escape from everything. Even if it meant for just a little while. She bit her bottom lip, her thoughts dangerously moving towards the Time-Turner.

To distract herself she read the contents of the page before ultimately stopping where it mentioned his wife. Except, there was no wife. Hermione furrowed her brows as she looked to where his wife's name should be, but only found blurred words that hurt her eyes. It looked like the words were changing and rearranging, unable to choose, unsure of what the final product would bring forth.

She slowly closed the book, no longer amused and a little freaked out, glancing at her clock to see it was only an hour before she usually ate dinner, but found herself with no motivation to head into the kitchen to cook. She craned her neck to search for Crookshanks, cautious of his silence as she laid there on the couch. Hermione placed the book in the crook of her arm and made her way towards her room, fixing her right braid and then checking her left for any loose strands while she walked. As satisfied as she could be with her stubborn hair, she poked her head into her room, finding Crookshanks with his back towards from the door, sitting in her chair, his tail swishing from side to side. A look of false innocence.

"Crookshanks?" her eyes narrowed in suspicion. She tapped the pocket of her black trousers to confirm her wand was still there in case she needed to stun the cat as a last resort. "What are you doing?"

Up to no good, no doubt.

He turned his head toward her, and her heart dropped to the middle of her stomach. Of course he would have the Time-Turner in his mouth. Of course she had forgotten to close the velvet box after returning the Time-Turner to its cushion. And _of course_ in the midst of her anxiety, she would forget her biggest threat: her own pet. Fate only laughed at Hermione, and she could only shake her fist back in anger as any Gryffindor in her position would. Or at least Harry and Ron.

"Crookshanks." Her voice cracked as she slowly tip toed to him with her hands outstretched. "Give the Time-Turner to Mum. If you drop it, you might end up in Ancient Greece or something." Hermione winced. "You don't want that, right?" she took another step closer.

She cursed the fact the Time-Turner was without a chain. It rested in his mouth as if it belonged there, and she could see his tongue pressing against the hourglass. He stared at her naively, not for a second knowing that he technically had a ticking time bomb between his teeth.

And it was here, at this exact second, when the shift began. Hermione had gotten close enough that if she leaned forward and stretched her fingers, she could reach his chin. But she did not expect the box that had been moved _half a meter to the left_.

Hermione yelped when her foot collided with the box of old textbooks, and the noise startled Crookshanks who was very displeased with Hermione's unfortunate tragedy with gravity. The Time-Turner fell out of his mouth and tumbled to the floor. Ironically, time seemed to slow down as she watched the Time-Turner roll toward her before stopping exactly where her chest would end up connecting with the floor. She panicked, attempting to grab at anything to stop her fall. It proved futile when grabbing her bag hanging off the chair only tipped everything backwards.

Hermione closed her eyes as the Time-Turner shattered against her, glass and metal digging into her skin so painfully she thought it was trying to reach her heart. She didn't even have the time to react when gold glitter and white wisps swarmed her vision. Hermione could only pray that she didn't end up somewhere as far back as the sixteenth century. Or worse, stuck in a never ending loop of tripping and falling much like the Time-Turners back in the Ministry. But there was one thing Hermione knew and stood by:

She was going to strangle Crookshanks once she got back to the future.

* * *

 **End Notes:**

If you have an questions feel free to ask! It means I'm doing my job correctly. And I'm 99% sure that any question you ask will eventually be answered by the story itself. If not, I will respond to you in the End Notes. And actually, before you do ask, which I believe one of you will, yes that is in fact my interpretation of Book!Hermione in the cover picture (:

Apologies if there are any mistakes in the chapter by the way, sometimes my eyes don't catch them in time.


	2. Spanish Guinea

**Beginning Notes:**

Thank you for the kind reviews along with the favorites and follows! And please, never be ashamed of your English, I understand you very well (:

(did a few small edits after posting this, nothing big)

* * *

 _"Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly,_

 _you leave marks behind, however small._

 _And in return, life - and travel - leaves marks on you._

 _Most of the time, those marks - on your body or on your heart - are beautiful._

 _Often, though, they hurt."_

 ** _\- Anthony Bourdain_  
**

* * *

Floating. Hermione was floating, weightless. Eyes shut tight with her heart fluttering so fervently that she feared it might take flight. She saw a chaos of constellations burning bright within her mind, and all the stars, with their sole purpose of ensuring her survival, moved to form one word: _swim!_ And she did just that.

Hermione gasped for air, unsure of how she found herself within the ocean, yet here she was, head above the water, staring at a beach where three people were waving at her to move towards the shore. One of them, a middle-aged man in white clothing that had seen better days, walked into the shallow area, his cotton pants rolled up to his knees. The sky stretched overhead in an expanse of blue. The smell of sea salt accented by smoke coming from the chimney of a small home. None of it reminded her of England, and that frightened her.

Still, she swam towards the group, propelling herself forward no matter how heavy her arms felt. Pain gathered at her chest where the Time-Turner collided against, but it was not the type of pain she expected from salt rubbing her wounds. It was an internal, unexplainable ache. One that had her refraining from clawing at her chest the moment she had been pulled by the middle-aged man and laid against the sand.

"Puede escucharme?" a woman's face overcome with wrinkles entered Hermione's blurred line of vision. There was a genuine kindness deep within her dark eyes, and for a split second, her obvious concern moved Hermione's heart strings. Her hands gingerly touched Hermione's torso to check for any injuries. "Tiene un nombre?" her voice like honey and rose water, something Hermione would enjoy losing herself within.

Spanish. The stranger was speaking Spanish. She didn't remember much from her Spanish classes in Primary, but she knew _nombre_. "Hermione," she rasped, her very breath shaking her small frame. Hermione closed her eyes when the sun became too unbearable. It was as if her eyes had been accustomed to darkness for many years, where a faint gleam felt like a shower of sparks. "Where am I?" she spoke as more of a chance to clear her throat than attempt to communicate. She knew talking to them in English was futile.

"Extranjero," the middle-aged man that had helped her murmured from behind the woman. "No de España." Hermione could hear him click his tongue, a noise of deep thought as he tried to figure out where her accent was from. She could sense his annoyance of the language barrier that would only prove tedious. She knew España meant Spain. Did that mean she had time traveled to Spain?

But that in itself did not feel right. Time-turners traveled back in time and only back in time. Not to other destinations the traveler wished to go to. For her to be here, Apparition was the only way. And with that thought, Hermione realized that there was something she was forgetting, a blank space moments before her body hit the ocean's dark waters. What caused her to Apparate so far from home? And if Hermione had no idea where this place was, how did she reach it? The more Hermione asked questions, the more she found herself without answers.

And she hated not knowing the answers.

Hermione stiffened when a pair of arms picked her up and cradled her as if she were made of glass. She opened her eyes to see a young man holding her, perhaps at most five years younger than her. There was a jagged scar from his left cheekbone to his lower left jaw, the only disfigurement to his otherwise smooth, dark skin. Hermione could tell that it was certainly not from an accident.

"Debemos llevarla a Marco," the old woman suggested as she motioned to a house on the other side of the beach. "Él habla el mejor inglés."

Inglés. English. Hermione swelled with hope and it returned some strength to her body, but she made no move to tell the young man holding her that she was capable of walking herself. She was actually quite comfortable where she currently was, thank you very much.

"We take you to, uh, safe," the middle-aged man rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he attempted a smile. He pointed at the house they were walking towards, nothing fancy, a standard home meant for one person, but it was reminiscent of Colonial Spain. It was right where the pavement met sand, a beach house. It was the only one there, while the other buildings were far behind, a road separating this house from the others. While the architecture was not out of style by all means in 2009, this house looked like it was taken from an old photograph. That fact sounded several alarms in Hermione's head and made her uneasy.

"Friend, help you. Marco, his name," the middle-aged man continued on.

The old woman elbowed him, "Dile nuestros nombres tambien, idiota."

"I am Samuel," he pointed to himself. The old woman was next. "Ella es Altagracia, y el jovencito es Elias." Samuel introduced last the man holding her, and at the sound of his name, he nodded to her with a small smile. His shyness was almost endearing.

"Mucho gusto?" Hermione winced and hoped her pronunciation was at least tolerable. When Samuel and Altagracia beamed at her efforts of communicating, she almost sighed with relief, but chose to offer them as much as a smile as she could. Although it probably looked like a grimace from the way the corners of her mouth had trouble lifting.

Once they arrived to the house, Hermione was placed on a straw chair and gestured to wait while they went inside, no doubt to explain to their friend, Marco, the situation. Hermione took the moment to survey her surroundings, now with her eyes adjusting to the sunlight, and searched for any sign that would tell her where exactly she was. If she was still in Europe, she had to be by the Mediterranean, for the air was warm but not unbearably hot. The humidity was already making its mark at her scalp, and Hermione scowled as she tried to pat down her rebellious hair with swipes of her palm.

Her toes wiggled in the sand, and she felt tempted to pull out her wand, which she thankfully still felt in her pocket, to dry her wet clothes and get rid of the grains that had managed to get under her tank top. Hermione looked at her top and almost laughed. Somehow, her S.P.E.W button had survived her spontaneous dip into the ocean, still pinned above her right breast in pride. Her new acquaintances had probably wanted to ask about it, but made no move to, or were unable to gather the words with their limited grasp of the English language. She did not blame them at all.

"Excuse me, Miss?" the flimsy door that made up the entrance to the house opened slowly and an aging man peeked his head so that their eyes met. Specks of gray outlined the top of his nearly shaven head, his skin seeing far more summers than she. There was a hint of an accent in his voice, but Hermione could tell he was far more fluent than the people she had met. This had to be Marco. "What is your name? I'm afraid all three of them are giving me different answers." He took on an expression of exasperation.

"Hermione," she answered with a tint of amusement. "If you can think of a nickname that would put them at ease, go ahead."

Marco pursed his lips as he nodded and retreated back into his home. It was rather strange that she hadn't been invited in yet.

Hermione took the opportunity to stretch her legs, since nothing really gave away as to where she was, moving closer to the ocean as she rolled her shoulders. The wind whipped at her hair and face, yet was kinder than the gusts from a mid-autumn storm that often shook but never broke Hogwarts's walls. She folded her arms across her chest, eyes taking in the never ending water in front of her. At times the waves reached her feet, its cold spray an anchor and a reminder that she was truly here and not dreaming.

Remembering the ache and what had happened with Crookshanks, Hermione touched at her chest, expecting scabs and dried blood, but was surprised to feel nothing of the sort. She looked down with furrowed brows, gently tracing the skin where the pieces of the Time-Turner surely pierced through. Believing it to be a trick of the light, she thought she saw glittering gold.

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye she could make out a man walking swiftly through passing carts pulled by animals and women holding baskets on top their heads or resting them against their hips. Hermione turned around in curiosity, putting aside her missing wound to wonder why he seemed like he was trying to appear small despite sticking out like a sore thumb. She used the house as cover, sticking her head out from around the corner to watch him keep his brown leather case close to his body. His old blue overcoat garnered brief stares from the people he passed, but he only smiled politely.

He rounded the corner to head deeper into town, and that was the last of him Hermione saw. She stepped out from her cover and tip toed to catch another glimpse of him, unable to brush off the inkling that he was familiar, or at least something about him managed to put her on edge.

"Miss. Hermione, please enter." Marco stepped out and motioned for her to walk inside.

She mumbled her thanks, doing as he said, and found Samuel, Altagracia and Elias sitting at a small dinner table, whispering fiercely among each other. Altagracia's face softened when she saw Hermione first, and she got up to lead her to a chair, patting her arm as a sign of comfort before returning to her own seat.

"Miss. Hermione," Marco cleared his throat, "do you remember anything? Where you're from? What is your last name? How exactly you got into the ocean?"

"Debe molestarla tan pronto?" Altagracia scolded him with a sour expression. She seemed displeased, and Hermione did not know why. "No deberíamos alimentarla primero?"

Marco waved her off before returning to his conversation with Hermione. He grabbed an empty seat, turning it so that the back faced the table and rested his arms on its top rail to place his chin on his forearm. "They told me you appeared out of thin air." His eyes never wavered from hers.

"I'm from England," Hermione answered, purposely avoiding the other questions. "Where is this place exactly?"

"I had guessed as much as to your accent." Marco pointed with his chin to the map on the white wall behind Samuel. "We are in Spanish Guinea. And you are quite far from home, Miss. Hermione." He shifted slightly. "If you choose not to answer my other questions, than please answer this: are you a witch, Miss. Hermione?"

Hermione felt her blood freeze, frost coating her veins, as she stared at him, the look of surprise filled her features. She opened her mouth to tell him to not speak so loud, to not accuse her such things, to not ask such a question in front of Muggles if he himself was a wizard. But Marco raised his hand to stop her for he knew what she was going to say.

"They do not understand us." Marco watched the way she worked her jaw to stop herself from saying anything. "Judging by Sam's expression, he eagerly awaits a translation." Marco sighed, and his right hand slowly inched towards his trouser pocket. "But he will not receive it for I will Obliviate them." His voice was low and hoarse, his features mirroring the tension now lacing his voice.

"No!" Hermione stretched out her hand, thinking of her parents, thinking of Mr. Lovegood, and remembering what she did to them what felt like so long ago and yesterday at the same time, "stop!" her chest ached as her emotional distress rose.

Hermione nearly choked when the world around her became yellower, _golden_ even. Everything slowed, but not to a complete stop, and she watched in amazement as Marco's hand returned to where it rested on the chair, and his chin lifted slightly. Like he was rewinding.

"We are in Spanish Guinea. And you are quite far from home, Miss. Hermione." The world no longer had its golden color, returning to the hues Hermione was accustomed to.

"What?" Hermione blurted out, blinking once, twice, three times. "You just said that." She absentmindedly rubbed her chest.

Marco raised one brow as he said, "I'm afraid you're mistaken. _You_ just asked me where we are."

Hermione opened her mouth, but found herself speechless. It was as if she had used a Time-Turner to go back the moment before Marco attempted to raise his wand to Obliviate his friends. She let out a stuttering breath, it as fragile as she was at the moment. "Send them home." She inclined her head to the confused faces of the people who she met on the beach.

"I don't—"

"Send them home," she said, no commanded, through gritted teeth. "Clearly this is not a conversation for them. Whatever questions they have, you can simply lie to them later." Her voice became cold, trying to show him the seriousness of the situation. "For is that not what wizards like us do?" Hermione's crest fallen expression seemed to move Marco, and he quickly told his friends to go home to their families and return tomorrow morning.

Altagracia was the first to speak her discontent, but the sadness that she saw in Hermione's eyes made her hesitate before ultimately following Marco's wishes and motioning for the other two to follow her. It was a type of sadness that was universal and didn't require words to convey it. She didn't leave without placing her hand on Hermione's shoulder, giving it a motherly squeeze to rid Hermione of whatever sorrow she was experiencing. Hermione gave her a smile, an honest smile from the heart she had managed since arriving.

She took note that Altagracia called her Hemmy, but with the 'h' being silent, it sounded more like Emmy. Hermione quite liked the nickname, thinking to use it as an alias if she met anyone from her past that she would meet in the future. As confusing as that sounded, it made sense. Samuel and Elias bid her farewell as well, and Hermione watched them go with a heavy heart.

"You were going to Obliviate them without a second thought," Hermione whispered the moment Elias closed the door behind him. "Even though they are your friends, you weren't going to hesitate."

Marco reeled back in shock, "how did you know?"

"That doesn't matter." Hermione shook her head in irritation, a little mad at herself for being unable to reign in her emotions. "What matters is that you're a wizard, and I'm a witch. And we managed to meet out of pure coincidence, because somehow, three Muggles who found me happen to be friends with a wizard. But I don't think it's a coincidence." She got up to pace back and forth. "I don't remember how I got here, but judging from your description, I must have Apparated." She paused for the space of one breath and chuckled dryly. "But I've never been here, never seen this place. So how could I have ended up in Spanish Guinea?"

"As much as I understand the English language, Miss. Hermione," he said with a tone of thinly veiled embarrassment, "I'm going to need you to speak slower." His look was almost pleading.

"My apologies." She gave him a sympathetic nod and sat back down. "But before I repeat myself, what year is it, Marco?"

Marco scratched his temple, unsure of what to make of her question, but he humored her anyway. "It's November of 1926."

Hermione swore loudly, pushing her chair back, the wooden legs screeching against the floor, her voice drowned out by the noise until it was even lost to her own ears. Marco winced, bringing his hands to his ears. In fifty three years, her mother will give birth to Hermione Jean Granger in the middle of the night. In sixty five years, she would meet Harry and Ron. In seventy eight years, Harry and Ginny would decree Hermione as the godmother of James Potter II.

It might not be the sixteenth century, but she was still definitely going to strangle Crookshanks. Even if she had to wait until the cat was born to do it.

Φ

As night bled into the blue sky, Hermione felt her world fall apart to the sound of the evening church bell. Dinner sat heavily within her stomach, and she tried her best to not empty the contents of her meal within the ocean. Since she managed to convince Marco to send his friends home, he answered as many questions from her as he could. But every answer he gave her only made her heart sink further and further. At first he started with the basics, telling her that he attended Uagadou School of Magic and had graduated fifteen years ago. He traveled back and forth between Spanish Guinea, Spain and England, and would only be staying for a little over two weeks before setting out again.

It was sheer luck that she managed to catch him before he left. He did not reveal to her as to exactly what his job was, but she knew it had something to do involving all three magical governments of each country. Hermione had learned long ago when not to pry.

Marco briefly mentioned in passing that another English wizard was within town, a magizooligist documenting magical creatures along the western coast of Africa. But that no longer gathered her interest when he had shown her the newspapers he got during his time in England, the headlines about Grindelwald. She had excused herself and went outside to clear her raging thoughts, leaving behind a very confused Marco.

From what Hermione remembered, Gellert Grindelwald was born in 1883 and attended Durmstrang Institute. He had befriended Albus Dumbledore during his time in England searching for more information on the Deathly Hallows. However, Dumbledore's motivations and intentions were different from Grindelwald's, and Hermione knew that a story like this could only get worse. Grindelwald became one of the most dangerous Dark Wizards of his time, and Hermione found herself right smack dab in the middle of it.

She cursed lowly, kicking her sandals against the sand in frustration, watching the grains fly into the waves that managed to get close. She was done with war and had no means of participating in this one. She knew how this would turn out, so her meddling would not be needed. Grindelwald would be defeated in time, at least by 1945. Without her help.

As of right now, Hermione needed to calm herself and assess her situation. She could easily Apparate to England and speak to the Minister for Magic or even seek out Dumbledore himself, but something was telling her not to, perhaps the same voice that had told her to double check her things to see if she had taken anything of Ron's where she ultimately found the prototype Time-Turner. Finding that the ocean, in all its radiance under the bright moon, provided no comfort to her anxiety, Hermione marched towards town, walking aimlessly with the help of the scattered street lamps to provide her sight.

She smiled at a woman holding her child, happy that the mother greeted her kindly before disappearing past her. However, it did little to ease the worry that settled in her mind and projected long kept fears. As pretty as Hermione found the town of Bata to be, it was not a place she imagined spending the rest of her life if she was truly trapped in the past. Hermione had no idea that Bata was even a city until she arrived her, _however_ she arrived here. The blank space within her memory made her uneasy. She knew she was forgetting something, something important. But she was too scared to say it out loud, to admit that someone had gotten close enough to her to Obliviate whatever had transpired before she found herself within the Atlantic Ocean.

Maybe even left to die if she had not woken up.

The possibility scrubbed at her chest like sandpaper, and her feet moved sluggishly as if she were a lonely wanderer, a woman with no destination, only an endless journey. Hermione already knew deep within herself that the possibility was, in fact, reality. But hearing it given voice was such a terrible, final thing. ' _Someone took a memory away from me.'_ The words weighed heavily on her shoulders and tasted bitter in her mouth, even though she had not even said them. She felt guilty whenever she used it on others, with the exception of Dolohov and Rowle, and from this feeling of emptiness, unable to figure out its origin, it was very clear as to why.

Hermione turned the corner, wrapping her shawl against her tightly but it did nothing to warm the numbness that crawled from the inside. It was not a chill that a fire could whisk away. She was instantly, acutely aware of her sorrow and had no means to make it disappear. But there was a bubbling anger within her stomach, boiling like poison as she thought of what she would do to the person who dared use Obliviate on her. Several hexes she learned from Ginny would do the trick, enough to satisfy her and try not to swiftly kick the bastard into the sun.

A rough shoulder bumped into hers, and she mumbled an apology, never picking her eyes up from the ground as she turned another corner. Hermione could have sworn she heard ' _bugger'_ being said from a clearly English accent, but by the time she turned back to investigate, the street was empty. Evidently, she shrugged and continued on.

After thirty minutes, Hermione Apparated back into Marco's home, accidentally scaring the poor man out of his mind with him proclaiming that his hair nearly fell out. She shot him an apologetic look before pouring herself a glass of water with a wave of her wand. The trembling in her hands, no matter how much she tried to soothe them, would not go away, and she didn't need Marco to know that. Marco bid her good night once he managed to stop his heart from beating out of his chest and saw that she had returned safely. He entered his room after telling her had transfigured the living room couch into a bed and used curtains and sheets to separate it from the rest of the household and give her some privacy. Hermione downed the glass of water and voiced her thanks at his retreating back and not just because of what he had done.

Marco had taken her in almost without a thought. He reminded her very much of her father in the sense of seeing the good in people and knowing when to trust someone. Marco trusted her despite the fact she barely revealed anything about herself except that she attended Hogwarts and had Muggle parents. Yet all that mattered was that she was no threat to him, only a lost woman who knew not where to go. Marco couldn't just abandon her, which would have been against his principles. She silently promised him to a treat of breakfast tomorrow morning as a form of gratitude.

Hermione knew that tonight she would find no chance of sleep. She removed her S.P.E.W pin and tossed it onto the bed. With a point of her wand her clothes wash away into a nightgown appropriate for the time period, something simple that any ordinary woman would own. She pushed through the curtains that made the walls of her makeshift room and collapsed upon the bed, pressing her face against the soft pillow with a low huff. Hermione placed the S.P.E.W pin underneath her pillow as a form of comfort. It had only been mere hours since her arrival into 1926, but she ironically felt as if it were a life time since she last saw her friends and family. She missed Harry, Ginny, her parents, hell, even Ron too. They were all familiar, people she knew, people could read like the back of her hand. Here? She was a stranger, a woman out of time who only knew of this period through books alone.

Tomorrow she would decide what to do. Whether to stay in Africa for a little while longer or make way to England and find someone who would be empathetic and trustful enough to listen to her story. Hermione needed to figure out what past she was in, the issues of timelines. The 'what ifs,' the 'maybes.' She refused to believe that fate brought her here, however, for she did not want her destiny to be read from her palm or through a tea cup. Then came the issue of her sudden ability to rewind time, but it was not as simple as that. Hermione didn't want to call herself a human Time-Turner, but something triggered the pieces of the hourglass that contained a time reversal charm that seemed to rest within her chest. And it didn't seem like an easy fix, most likely requiring surgery.

But Hermione would do as her mother told her before she let herself be taken to the wizarding world, to Hogwarts at the tender age of eleven. She could still picture the memory: her mother holding her gently at arm's length, the moment before an emotional hug.

" _Chin up, and be bookshelf sturdy. Allow yourself to become strong, and always let them know how smart you are." Her mother gave her a watery smile. "You're a Granger."_

And bookshelf sturdy she would be.

* * *

 **End Notes:**

Now, I am a native Spanish speaker, but I'm from Latin America, so I could be wrong as to how the people of Spanish Guinea speak.

Your reviews are kindly appreciated. Again, sorry for any mistakes.


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